


Cornflower and Marigold

by magpie_fngrl



Category: Lymond Chronicles - Dorothy Dunnett
Genre: M/M, Sexual Content, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-30
Updated: 2017-05-30
Packaged: 2018-11-06 23:46:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11046837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magpie_fngrl/pseuds/magpie_fngrl
Summary: After the events at Hume Castle, Lymond and a battered Will return to the tower with the stolen supplies. While everyone gets drunk, Lymond treats Will's wounds.





	Cornflower and Marigold

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Dharjeeling](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dharjeeling/gifts).



> 1\. This fic is part of the first ever **ScotSwap** and a gift for dharjeeling. Will is my favourite character (along with Francis) and I was very happy you mentioned him as your fave, too. I hope you like the fic!
> 
> 2\. I found writing dialogue for Lymond impossibly hard. There's no way I could come close to what's in the books so apologies for that. It doesn't help that I've only read the first two books of the series so far. 
> 
> 3\. Many thanks to my beta [bixgirl1](http://archiveofourown.org/users/bixgirl1/pseuds/bixgirl1) for her inexhaustible support and generosity and for always being there, and to [Kerowyn](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Kerowyn6/pseuds/Kerowyn6) for organising the exchange for the tinyfandom!
> 
> Also, many thanks to Dorothy Dunnett herself for saying at the end of the Don Luis chapter that Lymond was "in an amatory mood", which gave me licence to indulge my slash tendencies :)

 

            Returning to Peel Tower after the Hume Castle debacle, Will made a point of getting immediately and grossly drunk. The arrival of the food supplies and, most significantly, the beer barrels prompted the rest of the men to follow suit and to attempt to surpass each other in achieving a sozzled oblivion. It wasn’t long before the tower filled with the smell of lamb on the spit and spilled beer; other unsavoury odours of piss and vomit floated in the courtyard.

Some hours later, finding his cup empty once again, Will staggered towards the barrel, his bruised body aching with every step. Even the simple act of drinking hurt, the cut on his mouth smarting with every sip, but it was preferable to sobriety. The revelry had descended into a cacophony of snores and coarse laughter, accompanied by the melodies of the _Cancionero de Palacio_ that Lymond was singing, strumming the guitar with soft fingers, utterly sockered if his slack face and slurred words were any indication. Dark and contemplative eyes caught Will as he was refilling his cup, and Lymond put down his guitar and stood.

‘Barbarossa! Bleeding still?’ Lymond threaded through the sprawled men and approached him. He held Will’s chin with elegant fingers, pulling it towards him and examining the black and blue skin. His breath ghosted on Will’s battered face, beer-soaked and warm. ‘Let’s get you fixed and proper, my gorblin.’

He climbed the stairs, trusting Will to follow him.

A neglected fire lit the Master’s room and Will hovered by it, his heart beating a tattoo on his aching ribs. Through the alcohol fumes and the haze of a heady cocktail that might be called shame or envy or admiration, Will could also sense danger. Or perhaps _danger_ masked another, more lethal feeling. His heart beat faster.

‘Undress.’ Lymond threw the words casually behind his shoulder and Will’s hand tightened around the cup. He drank heavily, sloshing some beer on his shirt.

‘Undress?’ he repeated.

Lymond approached him with a cloth, alcohol, and clean bandages. ‘Are all my commands too difficult to obey?’

Will said nothing, not that he could respond as he’d like after the events at Hume Castle. He removed the shredded shirt and let it fall on the floor. Lymond kicked it behind him and came closer.

‘A waste,’ he murmured and Will wasn’t sure which his Master meant: him or the shirt.

Lymond guided Will to his desk, where he placed his medical supplies and where he sat on the edge of the scuffed wood, making Lymond his equal in height. The dying fire lit Lymond’s face, casting half of it in deep shadow. In the other, rosy half, the cornflower blue eyes danced over Will’s chest, taking in his injuries. Fine hands gently dabbed each cut on Will’s torso with white wine. It was slow work. The sounds from downstairs reached Will as if from a far shore, distant and otherworldly. Lymond hummed under his breath, while his fingers traced the purple skin of Will’s bruises, causing his stomach to draw in, his breath to hitch.

The calmness Lymond exuded as he treated him filled Will with an impotent rage, because he was drowning in swallowing waves of frustration and desire. He searched the other man’s expression for a hint of a corresponding sentiment, finding nothing more than a malicious indifference. This was a punishment of a different sort to the ones he’d received so far today. Will wanted to take the mirror-smooth calmness and smash it into pieces. His palms sweated and he dropped his cup on the rushes.

Lymond continued humming.

He’d left Will’s face for last and Will braced himself for the sting.

‘This will hurt, Marigold.’

The hoarseness of Lymond’s voice finally gave Will the satisfaction he’d been denied so far, but Lymond gave nothing more away. He cupped the back of Will’s head and touched his swollen lips with the alcohol-soaked cloth, making Will flinch. But Lymond held him tight and Will suffered the sting in his mouth and the warmth of Lymond’s body so close to his. A daring hand, out of its own volition, rose to rest on Lymond’s arm. Lymond ignored the questing hand, which travelled lower and found his waist.

A pause when his Master finished treating him. Lymond stood back, a sardonic smile on his lips, and extended the same invitation he’d offered the day Will entered his service. ‘Are you willing to be wooed, sweet Marigold?’

Will swallowed in response. For a moment, he could only stare, mouth dry and head fogged and stomach churning.

He was given no other chance to reply. Lymond’s expression changed in an instant and he took another step back. ‘You’ll be fit as a fiddle in no time, my innocence. Now: the night is young and the beer is plenty.’

Lymond discarded the rest of the bandages along with whatever had been happening in the quiet room, and descended into the riot of song below, while, behind him, a breathless Will resented the cool air on his skin where Lymond’s fingers had been.

                                                                   ⚔                               

 A day and a half of booze and food and mayhem, and the party showed no signs of abating until the early hours of the following night. Finally, snores filled the starless night, the songs petered out into incoherent mumblings, and many of the men slept in the inventive positions the drink had put them in. Still as a cat and still sozzled, Crawford of Lymond stared at the sky in the courtyard and Will, sore and aching from a variety of wounds, some of them mysterious even to him, found him there, leaning on the stone wall of the tower.

‘Ah, my Pyrrha… Standing on your own two legs: an admirable feat at this point. Is the beer running out?’

Will, trembling but determined, came close. He’d needed a day and loads of beer to work up the courage, but he made sure he was half-sober for this. He wished to _remember_ , either way. ‘You asked me something.’

Lymond’s eyes narrowed in dark amusement. ‘Are you here to give me an answer? An ultimatum? A diatribe of my shortcom—’

Allowing Lymond to run with his mouth was always a mistake and Will knew it, so he silenced him. He closed his lips with his own, swallowing his words whole, and relishing that—for once—he’d amazed his Master. He could feel the surprise in the way Lymond’s body stiffened for a quick moment before relaxing, and he could feel something else, something that made him press even closer.

Will lost himself in the sensation of Lymond’s vicious mouth, now tender and eager and impossibly warm, pleasure mixed with the pain from his cut lip. He’d kissed girls before, in France, but never a man, and he’d never dreamed he’d kiss _him_. The fact he had his hands on Lymond’s back and his tongue inside Lymond’s mouth, the fact that it was his Master’s body, warm and willing against his, thrilled him down to his bones. He didn’t think he’d be able to stop himself from kissing Lymond ever, but some notion that they might be seen in the dark courtyard made him pull away; though not far: he rested his forehead on Lymond’s and breathed. The reality of what they were doing kicked at the back of his mind, and he kicked it back out of sight.

Lymond must have realised what Will was thinking. His voice was light, teasing. ‘Did you stop to consider the time and the place, my flors di biauté, or did you — in typical Scott manner — rush headlong into this?’

Will’s cheeks heated, and Crawford laughed. ‘Rush it was, then.’

‘Everyone else has passed out,’ Will protested.

‘So they have,’ Lymond agreed and his lips sought Will’s.

He wasn’t gentle this time. Lymond kissed him with the same commitment and determination he showed in everything, a tour de force of kissing, and even though Will’s skin burned, his blood boiled and he shuddered to his toes, it still didn’t suffice, because Will hungered for more. Pressing flush against Lymond, he fumbled with the laces of his borrowed velvet doublet and breeches, and sought and found _more_.

‘Sweet Marigold,’ the soft voice gasped in his ear. ‘And here I was thinking you’re too sore after your adventure for any exertions.’

Will replied with his hands and, to his delight, he discovered he could make Lymond shut up just with a firm stroke of his hand, a canting of his hips, or a lick of his neck. He wasn’t fool enough to think he had the upper hand at any moment, but he liked to pretend he did; that he was in control of Lymond.

One day he wanted to leave his mark to the world. A mark as deep and devastating as Lymond’s. But for now, he was happy to watch Lymond come apart under his hands and see the marks Will left on _him_.

 

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. Lymond sings Spanish love songs at the end of the chapter and my brief research (googling) led me to the Cancionero de Palacio. I also found a mention of white wine used to treat wounds in the 16th century. No idea if either are accurate.
> 
> 2\. 'gorblin' is Scottish for unfledged bird, according to wikipedia (no idea how I came across that)
> 
> 3\. Comments are ❤ and much appreciated!
> 
> 4\. I'm on [tumblr](http://magpiefngrl.tumblr.com/) if you wanna come say hi!


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